


but i can't breathe anymore

by ssolaris



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Hurt Peter Parker, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie), Spider-Man: Far From Home (Movie) Spoilers, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, also ffh said petermj rights!, its a struggle, like major spoilers lol, tony is gone and peter is coping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 17:39:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19480789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssolaris/pseuds/ssolaris
Summary: MAJOR FFH SPOILERS!!!.Peter was expecting a nice vacation to Europe - not a visit from his demons that he'd tried to bury a long time ago.





	but i can't breathe anymore

**Author's Note:**

> hhhh so im a mess after ffh. and i love writing fics that delve into character's psyches. so now this is a thing, i guess
> 
> also this takes place during and after the movie, but before the mid credits scene bc FUCK that

Everything sort of just falls apart.

It starts as a gradual, subtle thing. The Ferris wheel starts teetering off balance and Peter takes that as his cue to briefly divert his focus off the elemental to go save his friends. He whirls around it with some webbing and plants his feet against the side of it, just close enough to them that he can see Ned and Betty yelling at him in terror, and he pushes against the weight of the massive contraption. It's heavy and he strains a little, but it's nothing his super strength can't handle.

Heat skims his back through the stealth-suit from the elemental and it's a little scary—fire is always more scary than water, because it burns, it scalds—but Peter feels tentatively okay. Because Beck—because _Mysterio_ has this under control. He's powerful, possibly on par with even Thor or Dr. Strange, and the glints of green that get caught in the reflection of the Ferris wheel give Peter enough reassurance to concentrate on saving his friends. Mysterio can handle this.

But then—he _can't_ handle this. Because the elemental is knocked back into more metal and it roars, a mighty thing, as its body contorts and swells up even larger. Mysterio seems to panic for a moment before he becomes determined in what he must do, and Peter feels something cold lurch inside his gut.

"What're you doing?!" he cries, and he's so frustrated because he's stuck here, trying to keep the Ferris wheel from toppling over.

Mysterio becomes swallowed in a great ball of swirling green. "Something I should've done a long time ago."

And then he surges forward and the elemental is snuffed out in a magnificent burst of emerald light. It instantly combusts in a terrific inferno and it takes a while for Peter to regain his bearings, but his ears are ringing and there's dust and ash everywhere. He huffs stubbornly and shoves the giant ride back into place, and as soon as he hears Ned and Betty sigh in relief he's gone.

Peter stumbles haphazardly to the ground, his right ankle aching from the impact, but he doesn't care. He rushes straight for Mysterio—for Beck, who is sprawled lifelessly on the ground. He looks so puny and vulnerable now, without that strange power wafting from his fists, or the steady glow of his suit.

He falls to his knees and shakes the man's shoulders, trying to feign the trembles that run across his body. It's like—it's like he's _back there,_ with the shrapnel everywhere and the smog in the air, suffocating and thick; the bleak silence that eats him alive.

"Mister—" Peter swallows his words, trying to recompose himself, because he just nearly says _Mr. Stark._ He's reeling, gasping for air, trying to focus but he just can't. He's _back there_ again, and Tony's slumped on the ground and half of his face is charred and his eyes look so distant and Peter's crying, begging, flailing helplessly because he didn't do _anything,_ he couldn't save him, he should've tried harder instead of just—

_Stop._

He sucks in a labored breath, and it settles uncomfortably in his lungs.

"… Mr. Beck?"

There's a tiny, insignificant beat where there's no reaction and panic stirs up in Peter but then—then Beck blinks his eyes open and smiles tiredly up at him. And he's okay. He's alive. He's _fine._

Beck clambers back onto his feet and invites Peter to grab a drink with him, looking a little weary but otherwise unbothered.

And even as they're sitting in the bar, and Peter is staring down into his lemonade, chewing mindlessly on his straw while Beck rambles about how amazing that battle just went, he just—he feels stupid. He's gotten out of so many rough spots, even more dangerous than this fight, bruised and battered but perfectly fine. All of the Avengers have.

He shouldn't have—he shouldn't have overreacted. Beck is fine. Peter is fine. They're both relatively unscathed and, hopefully, now he can just resume his vacation as planned.

But there's still something gnawing at him, almost unnoticeable but definitely there. It digs its teeth down, hard, when Peter finds himself staring right at Beck, and Beck's got Tony's glasses on and he looks all mature and noble and _right._ Not like Peter. Not like wimpy, inexperienced, reluctant Peter that just wants to kiss a pretty girl atop the Eiffel Tower.

Giving Beck the glasses _—everything—_ seems perfectly sensible, in that moment.

* * *

Peter would throw up right now, because his stomach is doing all sorts of flips and turns that make him utterly sick, except for the fact that his surroundings are shifting and changing too fast for him to even process. He can't even manage a single step forward before the whole world seems to turn on its head and he's catapulted in a completely different direction—slamming against concrete shrouded in black nothingness, flying through empty space and getting sliced by a million shards of glass, all brandishing his reflection perfectly back at him, as if mocking him.

He wants to be mad. He wants to scream and cry and punch Mysterio in his stupid fucking teeth. He wants to see Ned and MJ again. He wants to be back home, snuggled up on the couch with Aunt May while they binge the entirety of the _Star Wars_ franchise for the thousandth or so time.

Time seems to still as he finds himself on the Eiffel Tower, and MJ is there, eyes wide and scared and she's calling to him, pleadingly, "What's going on? Peter, where are we?!"

He rights himself, finally regaining enough balance to just relish in standing still. He looks at her for a long moment. At the vastness of the dark all around them, and the way the tower seems to crumble from above.

"You're not real," he says to her, and he clenches his fists and hopes that maybe that'll break the illusion.

But then Mysterio is at her side and curling his disgusting fingers around her throat, dangling her over the edge, and she screams. His voice is perfectly calm and calculated.

"Are you sure about that, Peter? How do you know what is and isn't real?"

Peter blinks and he doesn't even comprehend what's happening before MJ is thrown over the edge and he's already diving after her, a subconscious instinct. But she's lost in the green fog and her screams are swallowed in the darkness and then he's alone, falling, hopelessly, endlessly, and it's just so different than anything he's ever experienced. Because he's _Spider-Man,_ he kind of freefalls all the time when he swings around the city, but this—this just feels so desolate, so _horrible._ There's a pathetic, petrified feeling creeping up in his chest as he whirls around frantically, his sense of direction completely thrown out the window, so desperate for everything to just stop.

He slams into the ground and the wind is knocked out of him. Peter wheezes, cradling his chest as he tries to sit up, and Mysterio's voice is echoing all around him, tormenting him, like the ghosts of his past. And—and Peter can't even hear it, can't hear anything, because all he hears is his own heartbeat thudding violently in his ribcage, the blood rushing in his ears, because—

He's staring at a gravestone.

_Anthony Edward Stark._

He feels the bile slither up his throat and he stumbles backwards, falling on his back.

A hand bursts from the ground like he's stuck in a horror movie, nothing but rotted bone and clinging remnants of flesh. And then a head emerges, its whole torso, and its screaming at him, crawling closer and closer. It still wears the same old armor—somewhat faded from the dirt but still so vibrantly red and gold. The mask is falling off though, and Peter can see its _—his—_ empty eye sockets boring right into him.

 _Never good enough, never good enough, couldn't save him—should've—_ god, he feels like he's dissolving again, back on Titan, his skin flaking away into stardust, slipping from Tony's grasp and wishing with all his heart in that moment that he could've had more time. Said one last goodbye to May or willed up the courage to ask out MJ or—or tell Tony how much he meant to Peter, how amazing he was.

The world keeps on spinning and he can't think straight, even when the corpse has long since faded and been replaced by the hundreds of other illusions that toss him around like a ragdoll. He can't even piece together what's happening anymore, his coherency smothered by a chorus of _all your fault, should've been better,_ bouncing around in his head and slamming against the walls of his skull.

And then he's hit by a train.

* * *

He can't help it when he snaps at Happy.

And it's nothing personal, really, he just— _fuck._ It's so much, _too_ much, for Peter to deal with. He wants to be more angry with Beck—for betraying him, lying, having the audacity to try and murder children—but it all just circles back to himself.

Tony trusted him. To step up, become the next big hero, have the ability to handle everything. Because sure, there's Mr. Wilson and Dr. Strange and all those other big faces, but Tony didn't trust them. Not with those glasses, not with access to the entirety of Stark Industries' arsenal. And Peter—he messed up, so badly, because he's a stupid kid and he thought it was a good idea to forsake all of that trust and give it to someone who's practically a total stranger.

Happy tells him to calm down and Peter leaps to his feet, his words spitting from his lips like shards of glass.

"Don't tell me to calm down, because he's gonna kill all of my friends and half of Europe if I don't do something about it."

There's a heavy pause where Peter is forced to just stand there and witness the shock on Happy's face, drink in the reverberations of his own words. Happy doesn't seem offended though. He levels Peter with a look that says he's already dealt with stressed out superheroes that had way too much on their plates. He was the best friend of one, once.

Peter sighs and runs a hand over his face, vaguely disgusted at all the grime and sweat and blood still smothering his body. When he speaks again it's quiet and layered with something of defeat.

"… Everywhere I go, I see his face."

"I know, kid," Happy says, and Peter really looks at him and _yes,_ Happy _knows._

He swallows thickly and stifles the tears burning in his eyes, the whimpers creeping up his throat. Forces it all down and rakes a hand through his messy hair. "I just miss him. So much."

It's like it's consumed him wholly. Whenever he closes his eyes he's back on Titan, crumbling to dust and begging Tony to save him. He's out on the battlefield, shaken and weary and a little confused until he sees Tony, dying on the ground, too weak to even talk. He's shrouded in an endless expanse of nothing, and there's green fog twisting and swirling around him like a python threatening to choke the life out of him, and he's staring at a gravestone, and it's Tony, _Tony,_ a phantom of the past that _hates_ Peter, because he messed up so badly, he just—he can never live up to whatever everyone is expecting him to be.

_(I wanted you to be better.)_

Happy seems to think the same thing, and he tells Peter as much. "You'll never be Iron Man. Hell, _Tony_ could never live up to that either. He was a mess, kid. I know."

Peter absorbs this and mulls it over in his mind. And he's still riddled with guilt, with grief, but he decides that for now all he can do is pull on his mask again and just be Spider-Man.

* * *

A few days roll by and in that time Peter manages to stop Mysterio, save the entirety of Europe, get a girlfriend, and arrive back home in Queens all in one piece. He should be celebrating, probably. Or maybe taking a nap because they just got back from their flight last night and god, it was a really long flight.

Except he can't. He's found, despite his mounting fatigue over the past twenty-four hours, that his body refuses to sleep. It's stupid, because his eyes are burning at this point and his movements have become sluggish. He's exhausted, between his inner turmoil and fighting an army of killer drones.

But every time he closes his eyes, he's back in space, or he's back with Tony, or he's looking at a gravestone. Peter did it, he saved the day and he got back Tony's tech, but it still doesn't feel okay. He still messed up, he still feels like he doesn't deserve any of this. The glory, or the global rejoicing that the elementals are gone, or Ned and May and Happy being so proud of him, or MJ—MJ just being _MJ_ and being so perfect.

He lands on the fire escape just outside her apartment, conveniently looking right into her bedroom window. And he immediately feels regret. He shouldn't bother her, not this late at night, when all he wants to do is ask for a shoulder to cry on. She deserves better, right?

Peter makes to leave but barely can before the window is yanked open and MJ is looking at him strangely, her hair a mess from sleep and her attire consisting of sweatpants and a baggy shirt.

"Pete?" she says, after he just turns sullenly to look at her. "Uh, everything okay?"

She asks this with an uneasy level of concern in her tone and it's then that Peter realizes he isn't exactly just Peter, her lonely boyfriend showing up at her window. He's _Spider-Man_ right now, and his suit is still a little torn up from his scuffle a few hours ago with some bank robbers.

He kneels down to be at eye level with her and pulls off his mask. Her expression softens upon seeing his face, which he quickly realizes is probably a pretty sad sight.

"It's—It's nothing, sorry," he stammers, suddenly feeling very stupid and awkward. "I just wanted to see you. I'm okay."

MJ frowns at him, and then pries open the window more and steps back to beckon him inside. He does so hesitantly, cautiously, like he shouldn't be allowed in her room. She crosses her arms and looks him up and down.

"You hurt?"

Peter scratches the back of his neck. He wants to leave. He feels like an idiot right now. "Uh. No, no, I'm fine."

"Well, you look exhausted, Parker," she says, pointedly, and drags him over to sit in a big armchair in the corner of the bedroom. "What's with the getup? Shouldn't you be sleeping right now instead of fighting crime?"

"I… can't."

MJ seems only slightly confused, before her look of scrutiny fades and she weaves her fingers together with his. "Nightmares?"

He presses his lips together in a thin line. "Something like that."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"It's nothing major."

She barks out a laugh. "Y'know you're, like, literally the worst liar ever?"

This is probably Peter's one grievance with MJ. She can read most people, but particularly him, like a book. When she knows he's lying—and it really isn't that hard to tell, because she's right, he's not the best at it—she won't give up until he admits to it. She proved as much back in Europe, when she informed him that she knew he was Spider-Man.

"It just kinda feels like—" he gropes around for the right words, "—like I don't deserve it, I guess."

"Deserve what?"

"Spider-Man. Being… worshipped by the world. Being called 'the next Iron Man.'"

MJ shrugs and rubs his arm gently. "Those are some pretty big shoes to fill."

"You're telling me," Peter remarks, and laughs humorlessly. He drops his gaze to his feet and pauses; chews his lip. "Happy told me—back in Europe—that I can never be him. And, I know I can't. I guess I just feel… guilty. Because Tony would always tell me, he wanted me to be better than him. Like I could right his wrongs. Like _he_ was the one that wasn't good enough. And everybody keeps asking me, 'what's next for the Avengers? Where are they?' and I just don't know what to tell them. I'm only _sixteen._ I've already made so many mistakes and I've only been in the superhero business for a couple years! I ruined homecoming last year, nearly sank a ferry, screwed up our trip… I got you and May and Ned roped into all of this. I—I got Tony _killed—_ "

"Hey," she says, and her voice is grounding and firm. She leans forward and pulls him into a hug, letting him relax into her arms. "Just calm down. You're right about one thing: you're only sixteen. Don't even apologize about me, or Ned or your Aunt. We're all here for you, dork. And none of this—any of it—is your fault. Only people to blame are the Vulture and Mysterio and— _Thanos._ But not you. You're just some kid from Queens doing your best to help out. And I think you've been doing a pretty good job so far, all things considered."

Peter can't really form a response, so he just sinks into her embrace and relishes in the sweet scent of her hair. The soft fabric of her shirt beneath his fingers. Her small hands curled into his back.

"Thanks," he finally comes up with, because he feels stupid for not saying anything else.

They eventually pull away, and MJ takes the time to fuss with his hair, sweaty and matted from his discarded mask. He caves pretty quickly after only a few minutes of putting up with it, and he laughs and grabs her wrists and she laughs with him as he leans forward to meet her lips.

The kiss is easy and slow, a gentle moment shared between the two of them. And it's long, longer than the awkward, quick peck on the lips back in London. MJ glides her hands along his jaw and Peter hums pleasantly, sinking deeper into it. She stops after a moment and smiles against his lips.

"I'd offer to let you stay the night, but I think my parents would kill me if they found a boy in my bed."

"We can set an alarm," he says. "I'm a light sleeper, anyways. I'll be gone before you know it."

MJ leans back a little to get a good look at him, squinting with a coy smirk tugging the corner of her mouth. "You better be out the window by seven a.m."

"I pinky-promise."

"I mean it, Parker."

But she leads him back to her bed and they both curl up together under the blankets, and she seems to have no real objections to this. Peter smiles at her and lets his eyes flutter shut. Maybe it's just the sleep deprivation, but MJ's bed feels like the most comfortable thing he's ever laid on. Her presence, right beside him and snuggled against his chest, is all the more soothing.

"Thanks," he tells her again, and it's silent but poignant. They both know that Peter needs this, really _needs_ this, because otherwise he's going to end up spending the entire night patrolling the city and doing anything and everything else that is not sleeping.

So she sighs into her pillow and closes her eyes, as well. "Sure thing, nerd."

The calm of slumber crawls over Peter slowly, delicately, and the sensation is therapeutic enough to numb the torrent of thoughts surging in his mind. And it's the first time he's really felt at peace in the last few days—or, months, really (five years and counting, to get technical) and Peter thinks, as he drifts off to sleep, that maybe _this_ is what Tony wanted. For him to find his own peace.

He doesn't know if he's truly found it quite yet, but he'll keep striving, keep fighting, if only to prove to Tony that he's strong enough to do it.

**Author's Note:**

> i rly miss tony, in case u didn't notice :,)


End file.
